


Timid Timelines

by Penmanner



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff, Gen or Pre-Slash, M/M, Mild Angst, Multiple Universes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:09:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28113669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penmanner/pseuds/Penmanner
Summary: Love, he thinks.Perhaps, peace.And Time, ever fickle, ever unmerciful, and yet always the romantic... Listens.When they see this boy––so good, so pure, sokind, Death’s very own chosen––kneeling, sorrowful, at the foot of his enemy, and hears the echoing refrain of hope and love from a man with a fear of Death so heavy, with a darkness so deep in his heart it looks like ink...They know they can make an exception. They can be made to bend, just this once.And timelines, Time’s very own veins, grow.
Relationships: Harry Potter & Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 133
Kudos: 246
Collections: HarryTom, Top-tier HP/TMR Fics





	1. A hero slays a villain.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a heartfelt thank you for 1,000 followers over on Tumblr! Thank you so much for your support, it means more than I can say. <3

I.

When the Battle of Hogwarts ended, there were bodies everywhere. But Harry…

Harry had eyes only for one.

Voldemort is small, in death. Ordinary.

Harry looks at him, details the way he lies, bent, but not broken. Dead, but not gone. And he feels as if there is no one that matters but the two of them.

Oh, he's sure there's others around him, watching what their great savior will do. Waiting to swarm him, waiting to take the body away. But something––something about this moment, so profound... Something must be holding them back.

Harry walks over, slowly.

He stands over the Dark Lord, just for a moment, and he knows that this would be the biggest slight of them all. To stand over this all-powerful being, to tower of his dead body, as if to say, _I am stronger._

But Harry isn't, and even if he was... It is so wrong, he thinks, that either of them should be above the other.

Not when their pasts have raised them on even ground.

So, quiet and careful, Harry Potter kneels at the Dark Lord’s feet, and for the first time in his life, he does so willingly. He will kneel before this man. This man that has succumbed to his greatest fear, and has been forced to make peace with it. This man, that has taken so much, because he was never given anything.

Harry, hesitant as the lightest of breezes, reaches out. Pauses, an inch from that skin of marble. His fingers meet cold scales; a snake’s, almost, but smoother. On the knife-edge of animal.

He traces the skin of his jaw, a sharp cheekbone. The fine skin under his eyes. He closes them, because the red, once bright as fire, has dulled to the rusted color of dried blood.

And he wonders.

The Wizarding World will celebrate. They will fill their glasses with champagne, their hearts with joy and love and relief, just as they had sixteen years ago, on that day of false celebration. Now, true in their purpose, they will be full with the promise of a better tomorrow, the promise of freedom, and their eyes will fill with tears of happiness.

But Harry Potter... He wonders if he will ever feel as full of that glowing pride, that bubbling joy.

Harry Potters wonders, because he can already feel the ache of it.

*

The magical theory on horcruxes is very, very sparse. Voldemort did what he could with what he found, but the knowledge was incomplete––even the man that had come up with the ritual was not entirely sure what it would do. Voldemort, though, had always been stubborn, and he had made the horcrux, despite the warnings. Triumphant he had been, but even he knew the Diary was never intended to turn out the way it did. 

Even less was the magical theory on a human horcrux. It was unexplored, uncharted territory, and even when it did happen, it was never intentional. It was not by Voldemort's, nor Harry's, design.

But that time, despite his lack of knowledge, his lack of intention, somehow it had been perfect.

Now, Voldemort wonders if Time has always been a rigid thing. If that was always Fate's design, for the two of them. Inextricably connected, inexplicably polarized.

He sits on a bench. It is not white, where he is. Nor is it black, a void, as he had so often been afraid in life.

No. His resting place...

His is simply red.

It looks like King's Cross, but it is empty. It is not the bustling place of Voldemort's childhood.

He doesn't know how long he has been waiting, nor does he know what he is waiting for. But he sits, and he stays.

And he feels the pain of separation.

In the moments before his death, Voldemort had been offered redemption. The chance at a mended soul. 

Voldemort had not taken it, and he had fallen, the villain of the story. Harry Potter had risen, the savior of the world.

And in a blink after his body had hit the ground, his soul had been shocked into this place. This red, red place. The color of his eyes, in that body he'd had. The color of the blood he'd taken from Harry Potter to get it.

And his soul had been stitched together, loose and haphazard, at risk of fraying with any wrong movement.

It stings, itches, a scratching at his chest, but it is there. It is a rough, patch-work thing, but upon arriving here, his soul had flew to him and settled within him, fighting for the space of a complete body after so long without. 

Even now, they are unsure of how to become whole.

And Voldemort, despite his discomfort, despite these confused parts of himself, despite this itching in his chest that could someday be called yearning––despite that he has already done so for so long... Waits.

And one day, he thinks, as he stares at the empty, crimson-bathed tracks in front of him...

One day, he will know what he is waiting for.

...Even if, somehow, he is already distantly certain that is a _who._

*

When Harry Potter finally stands, his legs stiff, his back aching, his whole body so, so tired of it all...

He thinks one thing.

_Perhaps, in another time…_

_Perhaps this man would have known love._

_Perhaps this man would have known peace._

Harry bows his head, and he thinks, _perhaps…_

 _Perhaps now_ I _will know peace._

*

As Voldemort waits on his bench, he thinks he hears the echo of a word.

 _Perhaps_ , a voice says. _Perhaps... Love. Perhaps, peace._

And Voldemort, stubborn, ambitious, powerful, and yet always so, so afraid...

Smiles.

 _Love_ , he thinks. _Perhaps, peace._

*

And Time, ever fickle, ever unmerciful, and yet always the romantic… Listens.

When they see this boy––so good, so pure, so _kind_ , Death’s very own chosen––kneeling, sorrowful, at the foot of his enemy (who had taken all that he could from this boy and was _still taking––_ ), and hears the echoing refrain of hope and love from a man with a fear of Death so heavy, with a darkness so deep in his heart it looks like ink...

They know they can make an exception. They can be made to bend, just this once.

And timelines, Time’s very own veins, grow.


	2. A baby charms a king.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: My Father is a Dark Lord! by temptresslove
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580295/chapters/64803481?view_adult=true

II.

Lily Potter’s cooling corpse at his feet, Voldemort looks down at his nemesis.

Harry Potter is a little chubby, he thinks. Well taken care of; clearly loved and adored by his parents. Unlike Voldemort himself, when he was that young.

Pathetic.

He raises his wand, that wretched, seductive curse on the tip of his tongue, only too ready to be released, and then––he stops. Cocks his head, reluctantly intrigued, and, dare he say it, surprised.

The boy’s… not crying.

The boy stares up at him, his eyes wide and green, green, green. The same shade as the spell Voldemort had used to orphan the child. He’s guileless, innocent, and utterly unafraid of the mass murderer standing directly in front of him. The boy’s would-be murderer, if all goes according to plan.

Is this what will make the boy Voldemort’s one true threat? Is this naive bravery, this simple curiosity what will spell Voldemort’s downfall?

Is this the creature that will spill his blood?

The boy is soft, sweet, _fascinated_ by the dimming glow of green emanating from the tip of Voldemort’s wand.

As the spell dies, fizzling away, so too does Voldemort’s murderous intent.

This boy…

“Harry,” Voldemort tries, his tongue wrapping around the words. Tasting them. Testing their worth.

The boy blinks up at him; no tears or grimace to portray his fear.

A thought wells, like blood from a fresh wound.

Harry Potter… his prophesied enemy, his foretold nemesis… A power Lord Voldemort knows not…

Could be useful.

They look enough alike, Voldemort supposes. That dark hair, that pale skin… He could pass. And besides, none of Voldemort’s loyal would dare to question him, or his possible offspring.

 _Yes_ , he thinks, satisfied, as he relieves the cradle of its ward. He holds the boy carefully, gently in his arms. Those green eyes bore into him, still, blazing in their curiosity.

_Yes, this will work nicely._

**

When he arrives back at Malfoy Manor, Lucius is clutching tightly to his wife’s hands, lips thin, hair loose.

He looks anxious.

Voldemort steps inside, a shadow cast by the fireplace falling over the two Malfoy’s.

Narcissa tenses, but does not turn. Lucius, though, looks up, grey eyes wide and deliciously fearful. But almost… shocked. Almost… disappointed?

And then, those eyes fall to his arms.

Voldemort has the impression that if the man had not been trained so rigorously in the Pureblood ways when he was young, he would choke.

“M–My Lord?” he says, hoarsely.

At this, Narcissa turns, her profile visible. She glances at his arms, and flinches.

No doubt thinking of her own child.

Voldemort smiles, sharp. “He is ours.”

The silence he leaves in his wake is deafening. And then––

“Congratulations, my lord,” Narcissa says, sweeping into a deep curtsey. Lucius quickly follows into a bow.

“Yes, our deepest congratulations,” he adds, peering up cautiously through his loose hair, glinting in the firelight.

Voldemort inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Indeed.”

His smile grows wicked.

“Tell me, where is dear Bellatrix?”

**

Bellatrix had taken quickly to the child, and it was then that Voldemort became certain that she would be a mother of sorts to the boy.

Harry was a quiet, obedient child, eager to please with a mischievous streak that never failed to entertain. Voldemort handled him with a firm hand, but was patient, kind, just as he had been with the younger children at that dreaded orphanage. Bellatrix doted on Harry as if he was her own. She played with him constantly, encouraging his natural cunning and curiosity. Voldemort had had to instruct Narcissa to teach her sister the basics of child-rearing, but Bellatrix took to it with an enthusiasm Voldemort had only ever seen her exhibit in battle.

Lucius and Narcissa, too, would assist with Harry’s caretaking––and Draco provided a frequent friend to Harry, when neither Voldemort or Bellatrix could entertain him.

Harry is charming, kind, and unfailingly good. Soft, maybe, but perhaps… Perhaps there is merit in this childlike innocence that Harry wields so expertly.

And now, after a few years under his care and careful tutelage, Voldemort finds that he may be… fond, of the child.

“Father,” Harry, now four, says, tugging at his robes. Voldemort glances from his work to Harry’s unruly head of curls. No matter what he or Bellatrix did, no matter their vast knowledge of all sorts of magic, they have never managed to tame his hair.

(Privately, Voldemort prefers it this way.)

“Yes, Harry?”

Harry looks up at him, his green eyes big and glittering. “Can I have a snake?”

Voldemort turns back to his work, though he does card a hand through Harry’s feather-like hair. “What’s wrong with Nagini, child?”

The pet name drops from Voldemort’s lips without a thought, carelessly affectionate, and even after all these years, despite his ever-growing power and ruthlessness, Voldemort still finds it difficult to hate how weak Harry has made him.

Harry pouts, adorable and sweet. “She keeps bossing me around. I want a snake that’s _mine._ ”

Voldemort sighs, before picking Harry up, placing him onto his thigh. He holds him close, fond and charmed and weak and not caring one bit. Not when Harry has so quickly become his world.

“I make no promises, Harry.”

Harry snuggles into his robes, right under his heart. “That’s okay. I believe in you.”

And Voldemort feels his chest, for so long empty and aching, warm.

**

When Harry is eleven, Voldemort stands on platform 9 & 3/4, Bellatrix and Lucius at his side.

“Remember to write, okay, baby? I want to hear everything. And if anyone says anything mean, remember what auntie taught you.”

Harry rolls his eyes, disgruntled, though a small smile curves his lips. “Yes, auntie.”

Bellatrix sniffs, haughty, before she tugs him into a tight hug, her eyes suspiciously wet. Quietly, she says, “remember how much I love you. I’ll send a howler otherwise.”

Harry peers up at her suspiciously, eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t.”

And, though her innate aura of intimidation is slightly dampened by the shining of her eyes, there is no mistaking the sharp danger in her too-wide smile when she says, “I _would._ ”

And Harry, though stubborn and embarrassed and slightly cowed, hugs her back. “Fine. I’ll remember, promise.”

She lets him ago, and Harry tugs his hand through his hair, ears burning. He turns to Lucius.

“Bye, Lucy.”

Lucius’s lips tighten at the nickname, but Voldemort knows that he won’t say anything. He secretly likes the attention, Voldemort’s certain. “Bye, Harry. Stay with Draco, alright? And Merlin forbid, at least _try_ to become a Slytherin.”

Harry nods, a smile that clearly says _‘No promises’_ blooming on his face, before he finally turns to Voldemort. Turns to his once-savior, his _father_.

Harry’s throat works, his mouth opening, closing. His eyes shine, and he holds it back. He holds back that emotion that Voldemort knows he’s feeling, because he himself had dreamt of feeling that for someone on this platform, once upon a time. He is a proper Pureblood heir, though inwardly, inexorably just like Voldemort. Blood so similar it’s almost fate.

And selfishly, hypocritically, despite the lessons he has bestowed upon the boy… Voldemort wants to see Harry’s love pour from him like a waterfall.

Instead of saying anything, Harry lunges forward, his arms a vice grip around Voldemort’s waist.

He smooths a hand through those wild curls, gentle.

“Goodbye, Harry,” he says, whisper-soft.

“Goodbye, Father,” Harry chokes out, hands squeezing tighter.

And in a flash, Harry has stepped back and wiped his eyes, before smiling, a little tremulous, a little scared.

And then he’s on the train.

Bellatrix sniffles next to him, and Lucius turns, pretending to look for his wife in the crowd but really disguising his emotion. He will be losing two children to Hogwarts, after all. Still, Severus will be there. Severus will watch over the children.

Despite his dispassionate exterior, Voldemort cannot help the longing that builds up in him. He will miss Harry. He will miss his child.

And Voldemort thinks that, despite his accomplishments, despite his victories, there is no greater fulfillment than the overwhelming warmth of Harry’s affection, even if his absence stings like the most biting of winters.

But, just as summer will return with a warmth, so too will Harry, and Voldemort will await his arrival with all the patience in his bones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell this was low-key inspired by temptresslove's My Father is a Dark Lord? I love the dynamics in their fic, you should check it out: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26580295/chapters/64803481
> 
> Hope everyone's doing alright. Stay safe!


	3. A teacher meets an orphan.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: What He Grows To Be by Severus_divides_into_H
> 
> Link: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/19042240/chapters/45228508

III.

When Harry Potter landed in the 1930’s, he hadn’t been sure what to expect.

What do you do, when you’ve accidentally bent (and hopefully not broken) the rules of time? When you’ve landed smack-dab in the middle of your enemy’s childhood?

When he had discovered the Room of Requirement in his fifth year, he had made full use of all that it could offer him. 

When he returned to it in his sixth year after he had ( _not killed, oh god, please, I didn’t kill him, I hope I didn’t, oh god––_ ) attacked Draco Malfoy, he had wished, simply, for a place to _disappear._ A place where he wouldn’t have to worry about the war, or Dumbledore, or Draco Malfoy. A place where he could make a difference, but by his own choice. By his own hands.

And the Room of Requirement had granted.

It had been two years since then. 

He’d coped, barely. Only after ripping through every book on time he could find. Only after tearing through his own grief and anger and desperation and settled in the remains of it. 

He’d eventually fled to Hogwarts for help, looking for that safe haven of so long ago. And he’d found it, as a teaching assistant, the reservations Dumbledore once held for Riddle not present when he saw Harry’s earnest face, his pleading eyes.

Now, as he looks up at the worn, faded sign that spells “Wool’s Orphanage,” he thinks what he’s doing probably isn’t quite the proper response to a situation as unique as his, but, even despite being the man that was once his enemy… Harry knows what it feels like to grow up unloved. He knows what it’s like to feel a self-loathing so deep it bathes the bones.

So, he does what he always has. He puts others ahead of himself.

And he steps into the orphanage.

***

“Just in there,” the matron says, a Mrs. Cole. Obviously drunk, obviously skeptical of his motives. After all, who would want to see the _devil child_ ? Who would want to see _Tom Riddle_?

Harry clenches his jaw. Refuses to hear how it echoes in his head, reverberating back in a way that sounds more than a little like ‘freak.’

“Thank you,” he forces out. 

She must take that as her cue to leave, for she turns unsteadily on her heel, reprimanding the spying children on her way out. 

Harry stands outside the door a moment, waiting. Settling the whirling of his thoughts, the racing of his heart… The spike of his magic. 

He can feel the aura inside mirror his motions, feeling his, tentatively. Mirroring his spike in magic, but instead of in apprehension… This magic spikes in _curiosity._

Apparently Mrs. Cole is not the only one who is in disbelief that someone would want to visit Tom Riddle.

If Harry’s honest, he’s slightly in shock himself.

But, even so…

He knocks, twice. Two gentle taps on the door.

“Come in.”

Harry closes his eyes, collecting his final thoughts before this moment, and obeys.

***

The room is nearly identical to that of Dumbledore’s memories––small, cramped, and cold, customary of anyone’s stereotyped image of an orphanage. The only thing missing is the lingering fear of the Blitz, the steady ache of panic seeping through the cracks in the mortar.

Harry has picked his timing well––December of 1938… eight months before World War II.

If Harry has his way, Tom Riddle will never know the horror of a bomb shelter.

Harry’s eyes scan over the boy in question. 

He’s seated on the bed, book in hand, clearly a bit agitated by the interruption, though his face quickly smooths over when he realizes there are no orphans in sight. Harry snorts inwardly at the thought.

Riddle’s hair is dark, neat, short, his skin pale with the cold, pale like the many dead he had created, once upon a time. Even inside the building, there is no warmth to go around. He’s thin, a skeleton, and short, much shorter than any other boy his age that Harry’s seen––

Every other boy besides Harry.

And just like Harry had when he was young, Riddle’s eyes, though dark, watch him with a haunted hollowness, an empty void that should’ve been filled with love. Though Harry has his reservations, he hopes he may be able to remedy that. To fill that void.

If the boy permits.

“Who’re you?” Riddle asks, his eyes narrowing just the slightest bit in suspicion. “Mrs. Cole should’ve announced you.”

Riddle, Harry is surprised (and just the tiniest bit amused) to note, has a Cockney accent. His lips lift the barest hint, and it seems that Riddle catches the motion, for he tracks it with keen eyes.

Harry carefully drapes his coat over the edge of the chair. Privately, Harry is certain Mrs. Cole is too drunk to have remembered to introduce them, much less run an orphanage. “May I sit?”

Riddle is clearly peeved at his question being avoided, too young to have completely perfected his masks, but nods, anyway. Harry sits. The chair is old and rickety, well-used, but he doesn’t mind. It is better than anything Harry would’ve had, in his younger years.

“Your name?” Riddle asks again, just the slightest hint of impatience in his voice.

“Harry,” Harry says, after a moment of watching the boy. He really is quite a sullen creature, isn’t he? 

“No last name?” Riddle asks quickly. He sits up straighter; his eyes seem brighter, as if to say, _Do you know it? Were you told? Are you… like_ me _?_

Harry grins, just slightly. A hint of sympathy, of commiseration. “Potter,” and before the boy can droop a little in disappointment, shut himself away, nothing to bridge them, he continues, “But an orphan, just like you.”

The boy’s head snaps up at that. “Really?”

“Yes,” Harry says. “But that’s not the only thing you and I have in common.”

“What else?” the boy demands, a greedy light to his eyes. “What else is there?”

And Harry suddenly remembers that no one has ever had anything in common with Tom Riddle past a lack of parents. 

So, instead of Dumbledore’s way, instead of his harsh, dooming methods, Harry… Harry tries something else.

He slowly, so that Riddle can see, withdraws his beloved holly from his coat pocket. “This,” he whispers, a secret between the two of them, and brandishes his wand in a careful, sweeping arc. 

And suddenly, the room is warmer, the colors are brighter, and small, golden lights like stars are dancing around the room. Twisting and twirling around Tom’s head.

The boy’s eyes light up in wonder, in awe, and in a movement that is so stunningly child-like, so astonishingly innocent, he tries to cup his hands around one. When he catches it, it sits in his hand, docile. It’s a butterfly, golden and shrouded in light like a sun-bathed cloud.

Tom watches it with something akin to fascination. And then, he looks up at Harry, his eyes wide. 

Harry feels how the boy’s magic, though young, though untamed, wraps around his, jealously, covetously.

“Teach me,” he breathes.

Harry grins, pure and honest. 

In Harry’s time, Tom Riddle would grow up to be a vile human being, abusing magic with no care for who he damaged, what lives he destroyed, even if that person was, unwittingly, himself.

But now, all Harry can see is a child, broken, unloved, left for so long out in the biting cold, he was swept away by the winds of hate.

Harry will do everything in his power to prevent that, if only to honor the memories of all those that did the same for him.

“I’ll do better than that.”

Harry is a teacher, after all. But he’s also a savior. He’s also an orphan.

He’s always wanted a family. Perhaps now is his chance.

Funnily enough, it is not hard to imagine a life with Tom Riddle, unconventional as it seems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't feel like proofreading. Oops.


	4. A child steals a secret.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: The Man in the Diary by Reneehart 
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10890636/chapters/24204969

IV.

Harry Potter flips the book open, flitting through the pages. 

It feels like something inside of him lights up at the touch. Something comes alive, inside him.

When Lucius Malfoy had slipped it into Ginny Weasley’s cauldron, he’d been curious. Cautious, maybe, because he’d wish no harm on someone that is part of the closest thing he can call family, but mostly curious.

So he’d taken it. Stolen it, indirectly, from Lucius Malfoy, and really, that makes the entire thing worth it.

He flips from page to page, and despite the unusual feeling that accompanies Harry’s touch, the exhilarating feeling of  _ right _ , the book seems relatively unremarkable. There’s nothing written, just endless pieces of blank paper, ready to be marked on. 

Huffing out a breath, he snaps the book shut, and, though he feels something inside himself grow cold at the loss, tosses it into his trunk. 

He hesitates to say he’s disappointed, but really, he’d hoped there might be something special about it. Special enough that Lucius Malfoy would want Ginny Weasley to find it. Would make Harry’s whole body light up like magic.

_ Guess not _ , he thinks, and he flops onto his back on his bed at the Burrow, staring at the ceiling. 

As he thinks about it,  _ really _ thinks, he begins to hope that this year may be normal, after all. 

It’d be nice not to have to deal with any nasty surprises.

****

After the fiasco at King’s Cross, Harry had fallen into uneasy slumber. And the diary, sensing the embarrassment, the anger, the injustice of it all––

Had seen its chance, and it took it.

Even just a fleeting, forgotten touch could link a horcrux to a person. Could form a connection beyond words. And when two horcruxes make contact…

Well. Unprecedented things are bound to happen.

****

Harry jolts awake, an electric shock to his entire body. 

He sits up, chest heaving at the suddenness of it, but as his breath calms, he can’t seem to find anything unusual to have woken him. 

And then…

_ “Harry Potter…” _

Harry’s head swivels around so fast he can hear his neck crack.

“Hello?” he calls out, softly, into the darkness.

“ _ Harry… Potter…” _

Harry’s sure, now. 

That  _ definitely  _ came from his school trunk.

He looks over, sees the snoring forms of his dorm mates, of Ron, and turns back, carefully, to his trunk once more.

_ “Harry…” _

Harry shudders. His name, on that tongue…

It feels like a siren’s call. Sends Harry’s whole body tingling, like pins and needles up and down his spine, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes. Feels like connection.

And Harry––Harry has always craved connection, since he had been denied it for so long.

Before he knows it, he has the soft, black leather gripped tightly in his hand, kneeling on the floor as his whole body sets on fire. He can feel a buzzing in his ears, in his chest, in his  _ scar _ ––feels a completeness so real, so present, it chokes him with the onslaught of it.

He trails a finger down the spine, and he observes the book with keener eyes than before. And there, at the bottom––

_ Tom Marvolo Riddle. _

Harry’s brow furrows, even as he caresses the book, unnoticed. 

Why would Lucius Malfoy have someone else’s diary? Why would he give it to Ginny Weasley, of all people?

Harry has every intention of finding out.

But first…

Harry, though hesitant to release the book, reluctantly sets it aside as he roots through his trunk. Quill. Ink.

He rests his back against the side of his bed, his only light that of the moon, shining through the window. He props the book against his thighs, getting comfortable. His skin feels warm where it makes contact, even through his pajama bottoms.

Harry doesn’t stop to think before he puts pen to paper.

_ My name is Harry Potter. _

He watches with anticipation, and feels just a sliver disappointment when nothing happens immediately, and then––

_ Hello, Harry Potter.  _

_ My name is Tom Riddle. _

Harry grins, triumphant, blinding, even in the darkness.

He  _ knew  _ there was something special about this book.

****

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle became fast friends, and it was not long after Harry discovered his Parseltongue ability that Tom had become even more present in Harry’s life. Harry had also, strangely, felt a driving urge to be closer to Ginny Weasley.

Tom marked it down as sisterly affection.

Harry secretly entertained the idea of a crush.

And slowly, with Tom’s company, Harry had felt himself growing stronger, bolder––more confident, just like Tom. He became more keen to be around Ginny, to be more forward in his friendship with her. And as he spent more and more time with her, he saw her grow weaker, paler.

But Tom said not to worry, and so Harry didn’t.

Harry would do almost anything for Tom.

_ Harry _ , Tom writes.

Harry smiles down at the page, fingers tracing the words with affection. 

_ Yes, Tom? _

The words rest there a moment, and Tom––dear, charismatic,  _ kind _ Tom––in a moment of uncharacteristic hesitation, waits before he answers.

And then, he says,  _ Harry, you have come to my world. _

And Harry had. In memories, Harry had seen Tom, had heard the low tone of his voice. And it wasn’t much, it wasn’t enough, but it was what Harry had. Harry was used to not enough; he knew how to appreciate it.

_If you’ll allow me… May I introduce you to a part of yours? I used to go there, when I walked your world._

Harry feels excitement flutter in his stomach. He refuses to call them butterflies.

Immediately, he says,  _ Of course! _

And strangely, Harry has the funniest feeling that Tom is smiling. Not kindly, not softly…

But hungrily. Sharklike.

_ Wonderful. _

****

Harry looks up at Tom in utter, abject fear. 

He had woken up in the center of a ritual circle, in a yawning, ornate cavern he’d never seen. Each rune was carefully drawn in red. It looked suspiciously like blood. And that dark silhouette on the floor, with red hair like a halo, spanning the floor like a sunrise…

That looked like a body.

That looked like  _ Ginny _ .

“Tom?”

Tom smiles down at Harry, his eyes glinting in the low light. Something red glistens on his face, coating a cheek, dripping down his jaw.

“Harry,” the older boy purrs, stepping closer, though still careful to stay outside of the circle. Careful not to smudge his work.

And suddenly, Harry is so, so afraid. Suddenly, when he sees movement in the corner of his eye, he is sure he is not imagining it. 

Something is circling, and it is not just the basilisk.

Tom had been a mentor. A teacher, a friend, a  _ family. _

“Tom…” Harry says, backing away, but his feet won’t move. They can’t break the circle.

Tom shakes his head, his once stoic face, so handsome and caring in memories, seems suddenly so cold. So  _ ruthless,  _ and yet still so, so hungry. 

“Don’t worry, Harry,” Tom says, wiping something from Harry’s cheek. His thumb comes away red. 

“Today, you and I will be linked  _ forever _ . I will be your eternal mentor, your brother. Your  _ idol _ . I will mold you into  _ me _ .”

His eyes shine with something feverishly greedy.

“Today, you and I become  _ one _ .”

When the pain starts, it is nothing compared to the raw, scraping feeling of betrayal fresh in Harry’s chest, right where his heart lay.

Right where Tom had carved himself, and had every intention of staying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the lack of update yesterday! I had some surprise housekeeping to take care of and my sister was an utter nuisance. She forced me to watch Die Hard. And, like, Alan Rickman. Alan Rickman, y'all.
> 
> Anyway! I goofed and wrote an entire chapter today, and then ended up switching the order of the chapters, so I had to write two in one day :( But, on the bright side, chapter 7 is ready to go, and it's a doozy. I'll be posting double tomorrow to catch up, so I hope to see you all then!
> 
> Stay safe and hope you enjoy! <3


	5. A boy falls from the sky.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: What Souls Are Made Of by Emeralds_and_Lilies
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17658731/chapters/41644856

V.

Tom is not entirely sure where the boy comes from. 

The only thing he’s sure of is one moment he’s in Defense Against the Dark Arts, seated next to Abraxas and trying to present an attentive face even though he knows all the material already, and in the next he has a lapful of sixteen year old boy.

“The  _ fuck–– _ ”

The boy’s initially too concerned with cursing up a storm and brushing himself off to notice where he’s landed.

“Where the  _ fuck  _ is my wand––of course, of all the  _ bloody things to lose _ ––”

Tom’s too shell-shocked to do much more than settle his hands on the boy’s hips, preventing him from tottering off into oblivion, into a tumbled, tangled heap on the ground. Distantly, he realizes it’s––warm. Not… uncomfortable.

His hands flex.

Then, suddenly––the boy finally looks up.

And Tom is presented with the greenest eyes he’s ever seen.

Tom’s shocked for all of a second before he leans in slightly, studying them closer. The boy seems frozen, stilled at his ardent attention. Tom doesn’t even try Legilimency; he just wants to see if those eyes are really as green as he thinks they are.

The boy blinks, once, twice, and then he’s off of Tom in a flash, his (apparently found) wand pointed straight in Tom’s face.

His eyes are wide, his hands shaking just slightly. The boy’s eyes seem even greener from far away, as if being too closely engulfed in them makes you seem surrounded, and so then there is nothing duller for them to be compared to. 

They seem to flare even brighter at the boy’s next words.

“You––you’re supposed to be  _ dead _ !”

Tom’s heart stops, as if the very word can cause his body to be called to imitation.

He nearly lashes out, nearly puts his wand to the boy’s throat, no matter how pretty his eyes may be. It  _ cannot  _ be true. He refuses, he fights the very notion––

But then––he is shocked back to himself, and the world returns.

There are classmates watching––Abraxas, Zevi, Orion––all watching as Tom is confronted by this boy. 

Tom turns his head, looks at them all, taking in their shocked faces, the apprehension in the lines of their mouths. It isn’t long, though, before there’s something jabbing into his neck, stealing his attention back. 

Tom’s head slowly faces back to the boy, and he can distantly hear Merrythought trying to negotiate, but it is as if there is a bubble surrounding the two of them. There is a dome, the moment sparking between their eyes, shutting out all other people, all others present. 

One gaze is green, so green it’s almost like death, and the other something dark, so dark that it’s almost a void.

The boy’s lips shake, tremble, and he’s mouthing, mouthing, ‘You’re not real. You’re not, you’re not––Tom Riddle’s gone, Tom Riddle’s  _ dead–– _ ’

Tom tips his chin up. The boy studies him, something panicked in his eyes.

‘Tell me you’re not––’

“I’m real,” Tom says. He is not sure if there are others to hear. “I’m  _ not dead. _ ”

“But you are,” the boy whispers, voice cracking. “Only Voldemort––only he is alive.”

Tom’s hand twitches for his wand. 

‘ _ Don’t  _ say that name,’ he mouths, almost snarling.

For some reason, this almost makes the boy smile.

He whispers something, and it almost sounds like “Ironic.”

And then the boy collapses, the red light of the stunner a surprise to the both of them.

*****

When next Tom sees the boy, it is a week later and he is on patrol, treading the walls of Hogwarts, just as he has millions of times before.

Funnily enough, the boy had not been far from his mind to begin with.

He pauses, watching him, curious. The boy has a hand on one of the walls, as if tracing cracks already well-learned, his feet gliding across the floor like a ghost’s. Completely unaware of everything. 

The last Tom had heard (and he had been keeping tabs), the boy was still in the infirmary.

Amnesia, he’d learned from Slughorn.

Tom isn’t so sure.

He slips into the shadows, casting a quick  _ Notice-Me-Not _ on himself and a  _ Silencio  _ to conceal any trace of him. 

Torture, murder. What is a little stalking, compared to that?

He creeps along behind the boy, who is clad in the regulation and yet still utterly ridiculous white gown given to all those staying in the infirmary. It flits about his knees, like something from the Victorian ages. Something… darkly romantic.

The only thing missing is a candle, held in one of those snow-pale hands.

The boy seems to wander aimlessly, his fingers caressing the walls with an affection that is unusual of one that supposedly has no recollection of ever being here before.

Tom is almost considering abandoning this mission when they come upon the second floor lavoraties.

And instead of turning into the boy’s, instead of giving Tom an excuse to turn around and mark his patrol as finished, the boy steps, sure of himself, into the girl’s.

Tom pauses once outside of the door.

There is only one reason a boy would voluntarily seek out a bathroom like this one, with rusted taps and leaky toilets and a wailing ghost that hides in the pipes.

Tom’s mouth ticks upward.

This is dangerous, yes. All of his secrets, all of his work, could be shredded to tatters, unraveled like thread in mere moments. 

But his fascination, his ever-present boredom…

Ah, it purrs at a chance like this.

He follows.

*****

When Tom enters, the boy is standing over the entrance to the Chamber.

With a whispered word, Tom reveals himself. 

The boy looks up immediately, his senses keen (at least where Tom is concerned, and isn’t  _ that  _ interesting?). His whole body twitches, as if to jump up, to confront, but the boy only watches, careful to keep Tom within his sights.

Suddenly, the boy laughs. “You know, I should’ve realized you’d run into me here, of all places.”

Tom’s eyes narrow. 

“Why?”

The boy sobers, sighing. His shoulders are still tense, still ready for battle, but there’s something undeniably weary in his voice when he says, “I know a lot about you, Tom Riddle.”

Tom pulls his wand out slowly at the admission. The boy’s eyes take careful account of the motion, of every little movement Tom makes. 

“And why is that?” Tom asks, voice steady, his fingers flexing around his wand. “I don’t recall meeting you before. I’d remember eyes like yours.”

The boy blinks, obviously not expecting the compliment. Eventually, he responds, “Well, I suppose some things are just destiny, yeah?”

And he holds his wand up, a mirror of their first meeting.

“You and I always meet with wands drawn. You wouldn’t know that, of course, but I…”

The boy’s grip firms around the handle.

“I know. I know, and I won’t lose that, even if I’ve lost everything else.”

Tom’s interest is piqued. Tom is fascinated by this boy, pale, standing strong despite the evident nervousness outlined in his whole body. He is intrigued, enchanted,  _ bewitched _ .

“I was told you lost your memories,” Tom says eventually, his eyes glued to this boy. This ethereal creature.

The boy’s smile slants, more a smirk than a kind twist of lips. “Of all the things I told them I lost… That is the only thing that is a lie.”

Tom stores this information for later, locks it away in his mind, so that he may examine it with a stronger greed when he is alone, and not so preoccupied with consuming the image of this boy in his mind’s eye. 

Eventually, Tom too raises his wand, the wood coming together as they cross. 

A rushing warmth races through Tom’s veins, a sizzling electricity coursing down his spine at the contact.

His eyes crease in a true, genuine smile. It is perhaps a little dark around the edges, a little cracked and crooked, but the boy looks as if he expects it. Looks as if he is just as enchanted.

“Tell me, boy-who-lies…” And Tom hungrily watches the way the boy’s jaw tenses at the moniker, “Will you be honest when I ask your name?”

The boy’s eyes burn into his. Green. So, so  _ green _ .

“Harry,” the boy breathes, voice quiet, but steady. Sure of himself, of his response––of his truth. “Just––Harry.”

Tom’s smile grows wider, more violent.

“Well then, Harry. It seems you and I have some issues to work out.”

He’s not sure who strikes first.

...Tom won’t call it infatuation, but if he had to call it something…

He’d say maybe the boy is right.

Maybe some things are just  _ destiny. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was going to post chapter 6 tonight as well, but feeling a little burnt-out and I'm not happy with the direction it's going. Oh well. We'll see what happens tomorrow. On the bright side, we're half-way there!
> 
> Also, thank you for all of the lovely comments! I will be getting around to responding, I just want to get back on schedule first.
> 
> Stay safe!


	6. A shopkeep skips through time.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: Kingdom Come (Undone) by maydei
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26241193/chapters/63871735

VI.

When Harry sees him, his whole brain whites out. His whole body tenses, his jaw clenches, his muscles tighten, and all he can think is,  _ Murderer. _

And then, all he knows is that instead of going back to the tent, instead of warning Ron and Hermione like someone  _ smart  _ would do, he’s rushing the man, tackling him to the ground like he’s never held a wand a day in his life.

A strong punch to Tom Riddle’s pretty face, the satisfying  _ thud _ of a hit well-landed, and then Harry’s being wrestled flat onto his back.

Harry thrashes under Riddle, his wrists pinned to either side of his head, his legs trapped beneath the other’s. He glares up hatefully into dark, wide eyes, watching him with something like shock, blood smearing the corner of his mouth.

Harry smiles at the sight.

Riddle’s eyebrow ticks up.

“Well, that wasn’t a very pleasant greeting.”

Harry’s face quickly morphs into a snarl. “Which one are you?” he spits, twisting and turning, but he is pinned tight. The only way out is distraction. Stalling.

Riddle’s caught so off guard he forgets to don his perfect mask. “Excuse me?” he says, almost offended. As if being compared to anyone else even vaguely similar is the highest insult.

“Which fucking horcrux?” he hisses, and Riddle’s so utterly shocked that Harry would even know that word, especially in conjunction with  _ him _ , that his grip loosens just a fraction.

It’s all Harry needs.

In a flash Harry is straddling Riddle, one hand clenched tight around his throat; not enough to choke, but too much to ignore. To be comfortable.

“Which horcrux?” Harry says, and he belatedly curses his rash, stupid, empty-headed decision to run head-on into this situation without reaching for his wand, first.

Riddle’s face quickly smooths into a mask, collected even in the face of such a sudden revelation like this. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Yes, you do! You came out of something, so tell me or I  _ swear to–– _ ”

“The only thing I  _ came out of _ was my mother’s  _ womb _ ,” Riddle retorts, lip curling, before he seems to fall quiet, thoughtful. He studies Harry a moment, taking in his furious expression, a glint coming to his eye. “But…”

“But  _ what _ ?” Harry snarls, eyes flashing. He presses just the tiniest bit down on the man’s throat, in warning.

And suddenly Harry remembers that he never captured Riddle’s hands.

Because two, scorching hot palms, even in the freezing snow, are settling tight to his waist. Riddle tilts his chin up, exposing more of his throat. “But, if you let me go, maybe there can be a… sharing, of sorts.”

Harry’s eyes narrow.

_ That sounds dangerously like a... _

“Like a negotiation?” Harry says suspiciously, fingers flexing around his neck. 

“In a manner of speaking…” Riddle smirks, adjusting his hips, and Harry gasps just the lightest bit at the motion, “We’ll both be satisfied by the end, I’m sure.”

_...Like a proposition._

Harry’s face heats, and his breath leaves him in a low, hissed stream of air. “Look,  _ fucker _ ,” Harry says, clenching tighter, revelling in the slight rush of color to Riddle’s face. “I’m not here to indulge your  _ games _ . Either tell me who you are,  _ what _ you are, tell me what you  _ want _ , or run back to your fucking  _ maker _ .”

Riddle’s eyes are wide with lack of air, his lips parted, but still, there is a  _ glint  _ to his eyes. There is a heat, there.

Harry releases just the littlest bit when Riddle’s lips move, trying to say something, but unable to find the air. And then, immediately clenches back up when he says, “My, you’re feisty, aren’t you?”

Harry sneers down at him. “I’m about to go from feisty to fucking  _ furious _ if you don’t start answering questions.”

Riddle’s smile goes sharp. “Fine. But only…”

And then he’s got a finger tracing the locket’s chain where it rests against Harry’s neck, his long fingers curving around the metal casing of the engraved 'S'.

“...On  _ my _ conditions.”

And then they’re Disapparating with a  _ pop _ , the only evidence they were ever there Harry’s holly wand resting on the snow.

******

Harry glares at Riddle over the table, the mug of hot chocolate cradled in his palms the only thing warming his hands up. Riddle had dragged Harry, kicking and screaming, into a muggle pub after Harry’s insistence that they couldn’t go to a magical one (surprisingly enough, with only a lifted eyebrow, he’d complied), and then threatened him with turning him straight in to Voldemort if he didn’t obey.

And though he is prideful, though he is brimming with hatred, loathing, utter  _ irritation _ for this man…

He did as he was told.

And now, here they are.

“So,” Riddle says after a moment, sipping his coffee (black, because of course). “How do you know me? How is it… that you have come to know my  _ horcruxes _ ?”

Harry looks away, rubbing his hands up and down the mug; anything to distract from the piercing eyes drilling holes into the side of his head. From the faint echo of Riddle’s empty flirtations.

Now, he knows  _ exactly  _ how people were pulled under his spell.

“That’s none of your business.”

Riddle’s hand snatches one of Harry’s, his teeth baring in a snarl. No need for pretences, evidently, since Harry already knows his darkest secrets. 

Harry resists the urge to flex his hand at the tingles he feels from that single point of contact around his wrist.

_ God, what is  _ wrong  _ with him? _

Even when he is aware there is a spell, he can’t seem to break free from the trance Riddle’s natural charm puts him under.

“It is most definitely  _ my  _ business,” Riddle says in a low voice, eyes flashing under the dull yellow bulb hanging precariously close to their heads. “This is my  _ soul  _ we speak of.”

Harry tries to pull out of the grip, to no effect. He almost wants to say,  _ The soul  _ you _ tore away. The soul you  _ mutilated _. _

But this night is already steadily descending into madness and misery, and the sooner he gets out of this, the sooner he gets back to Ron and Hermione. The sooner he gets back to relative safety.

Because really, nowhere is safe; it’s just that being away from Riddle suddenly seems one of the least dangerous of all his options, right now.

“ _ If _ I tell you,  _ if _ I answer your questions… I want you to do something for  _ me _ .” 

Riddle’s finger trails the length of Harry’s wrist, and Harry’s eyes narrow, tensing against the shiver like electricity that wants to rush down his spine. He eyes Harry speculatively, before twisting their wrists around, bringing the palms of their hands together. Interlacing their fingers, like some mockery of intimacy.

“Alright. Name it, and I’ll see what I can do.”

Harry could’ve thought about it. He could have called Ron, or Hermione, or hesitated, even just a moment.

But he doesn’t. No, instead, he says,

“Tell me where you came from. Tell me what you  _ are _ .”

Riddle’s face breaks out into a smile, though his eyes are still cutting in their observance.    
  
“I, my prickly companion, am from the past.”

Harry feels his whole world drop around his ears.

******

Four hours later, Harry bends down, picking up the holly wand from where he’d left it.

He and Riddle had talked for hours, Harry reeling, Riddle revelling in all of the new information laid at his feet. They hadn't touched on the possibilities or impossibilities of it, the new questions and concerns an event like this presents.

No. Instead, they'd toyed with each other.

A question for a question, that’s the game they’d played, under all the other riddles and sly innuendos.

Harry knows what the other horcruxes are, now.

And Riddle knows  _ exactly _ what he will grow to be.

At the end of it, they’d stood outside, under the streetlamp, staring out into the streets, into the skies. Harry had, at least. He’d pretended to ignore the heavy weight of Riddle’s regard on the side of his face.

“Come with me,” Riddle had said suddenly, taking Harry’s arm, pulling him to him. “We could have fun together, you and I.”   
  
Harry, after a moment of bewilderment, had laughed in his face. “I already have friends to run around the world with, Riddle.”

Riddle’s eyes searched his face, as if looking for a lie in the statement. And then, because he was insufferable, he’d said, “Come with me anyway.”

Harry had shaken his head, stepping away. “Not a chance.”

He looked to the moon, looked at that cold, creamy light of it, and then turned to Riddle’s face. The reflected moonlight in his eyes made him look almost innocent. Almost hopeful. 

And Harry… Well. It’s always good to keep track of your enemies, isn’t it?

“Let’s make a deal,” he’d said, and Riddle had watched him with open fascination. 

“What kind of deal?” he’d asked, his voice simultaneously skeptical and intrigued.

Harry grinned, carefree and playful. Mischievous, and Riddle’s eyes seemed glued to it.

“A wager, almost. If you manage to stay out of Voldemort’s regime, out of his machinations… I’ll tell you where to find me, every once in a while. We’ll see if you can  _ keep up. _ ”

Riddle’s eyes flashed at the challenge. 

Ah, there was that red spark.

“It’s a deal, Harry Potter.”

But he’d said it like,  _ It’s a date. _

Now, as Harry cradles the dark wood of his holly in one hand, another wrapped around the locket, he stares up at the moon again.

Harry has been running for months, now. He has been running his whole life from every version of Tom Riddle there is.

And this––this is a game of cat and mouse that Harry––more than just surviving, more than just existing, like he has for so long––wants to  _ win _ .

He grins up at the sky, wild and raw and untamed.

And he laughs, giddy.

After Voldemort, after all of this is over––Tom Riddle won’t know what hit him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what this is, but I hope you guys enjoy it anyway. Also, thank you to everyone for your kind words! They mean a lot.
> 
> Chapter 7's gonna be posted some time tonight, and it's a rollercoaster, y'all. Buckle up.


	7. A monster walks through a prison.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: No Glory by ObsidianPen
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7502151/chapters/17052891

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Major Character Death.

VII.

Harry struggles furiously against his bonds, the graveyard bathed in a chilling glow, the cold stone of his captor’s history like ice against his back. He pays it no mind. No, he can’t focus on anything other than the monster before him, risen from the cauldron like poison, like an  _ instrument of death  _ ––

This is not the Tom Riddle of the diary, he knows. 

No, this––this is not  _ human _ . 

This is not  _ living _ , not in the truest sense of the word.

When the monster’s eyes finally meet his, his dignity clothed in a long, trailing black robe, Harry feels his whole body quake. 

_ This is the end. _

And he’s almost certain of it. 

But then––he isn’t.

Because Voldemort, slowly, silently, like the scent of doom on the breeze, moves, coming to a stand-still before the bound, bleeding figure of Harry Potter.

“ _ Harry Potter…”  _ he hisses. 

And though Harry is terrified, though he is shaking––he is a Gryffindor at heart.

Harry snarls, baring his teeth.

Voldemort–– _ for that is what this monster, this skeleton, this  _ corpse _ is _ ––tracks the motion with blood red eyes, before they flick up to Harry’s, bright in their bloodlust.

A nasty, demonic smile cuts across Voldemort’s face like the slice of a knife.

“ _ I can touch you now.” _

And he does.

One fingertip on Harry’s forehead, and Harry’s whole body seizes in overwhelming, apocalyptic pain.

He is unaware of anything, anything––it slashes through him like lighting, like the scar that has been on his forehead for so, so long, like the tearing of a nail down the sensitive skin of his spine––

He can’t hear, but he’s distantly aware he must be screaming, because he feels his vocal cords ripping, his spine bending, his body  _ breaking, breaking–– _

And then it stops, between one breath and the next.

For reasons Harry can’t explain, all he can think is,  _ This is Tom Riddle no longer. _

And in the next moment, Voldemort is taking Harry’s jaw in one clawed hand, and whispering, in that chilling, high voice, “ _ Legilimens.” _

Harry had not known that one thought would spark his doom. 

But it had. 

And as Voldemort had torn through Harry’s mind, memories like camera flashes leading the way to that one, fatal discovery, all Harry had thought was,  _ Yes. _

_ Yes, Tom Riddle was no more. _

*******

When Voldemort had ripped through Harry Potter’s mind that very first time, he had been presented directly with the memory of his sixth-year self. Handsome, horrid, a devil in human form. 

He had seen his Chamber, had seen his lovely basilisk, and he heard the hissed words of, “ _ Kill him.” _

And he had been presented with the startling, altogether astonishing notion that Harry Potter had wanted to  _ speak back. _

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One… Voldemort’s Horcrux, for that is surely the only way he could be speaking  _ his _ tongue.

Voldemort’s prisoner, now.

Voldemort walks through the halls of Azkaban, slowly. He is in no rush to visit his soul-piece. 

He pays no mind to the suffering masses within these walls, the wailing creatures begging him for any reprieve, pitiful in their desperation. 

As he continues down to the deepest, darkest recesses of this place, the occupants fall quiet––these cells belong to those that have been here so long, they no longer see the sense in begging. No longer feel the will to leave the only place they remember.

And still, still, Voldemort continues.

He comes upon a door, blood magic imbued into its very core. 

Nagini had eaten the Dursleys, so the only people that would ever walk through this door would be Voldemort or Harry, and Voldemort had no intention of ever letting Harry Potter out of his sight again.

He takes his wand, pricking the tip of his finger on a conjured blade. Traces the lines of the rune with his finger, and he listens as the lock clicks open.

Harry Potter is standing in the corner, arms braced against the wall.

Voldemort observes him in his new, eternal habitat.

The room is relatively lush, outside of the barred area. Bathed in red, there are couches, pillows, chairs––a cozy drawing room, almost. But inside the bars…

The floor is dirt, runes carved around the perimeter, the prisoner tightened in the confines like a vice grip on the neck. No magic is permitted to course through the boy’s veins, not with the wards acting as a suppression on his power.

The room is a study in the contrast between comfort and constriction.

Voldemort seats himself on his deserved side of the iron bars.

The boy is stubborn, evidently. He refuses to acknowledge Voldemort. Refuses to break first.

It makes no difference, because even if Voldemort relents, it is not as if anyone besides this boy, trapped in an eternal prison, will know.

“I trust everything is to your liking.”

The boy doesn’t look at him; he continues staring at the wall, leaning against it, as if it will support him against the pressure suffocating him.

“Better than a cupboard, I suppose.”

Cheeky thing. Voldemort feels a twinge of annoyance, but he squashes it down. This boy is his horcrux, and there is nothing he can do to fight back, now. The battle is already won.

“Yes. I did hear about that,” he says, settling in the armchair. “You’ll be happy to find they’re dead, now.”

The boy twitches, but does not move from his position. His voice comes out strangled when he says, “And my friends?”

Voldemort adjusts, thoughtful. He could lie. He could say they are dead, say they are being tortured, not far from where the boy stands.

He could.

But, as if the soul-piece calls, even through the wards… He won’t.

“Hunted. They will be found.”

The boy laughs, harsh, grating. Hollow. It seems the wards have not only sucked out his magic, but his anger, that fierce spark Voldemort remembers from his time as a parasite in another man’s body.

“Eventually.”

Voldemort cocks his head, almost questioning. For some reason, he is not angry, he is not vengeful, as he had been for weeks after he had regained his body, discovered the truth of his soul’s residence. For now, he is… curious.

The boy’s head ducks down farther, and like this, Voldemort can see the shining sliver of white teeth. 

“My friends… I am not the only one talented in escape, you know.”

And just like that, Voldemort feels his vision bleed red. The boy had refused to look at him, to acknowledge him, and now, to reference all of his pathetic, skilless victories over him––

“ _ Chance.  _ Your escapes were nothing but talentless luck, and you _ dare  _ insinuate otherwise?”

Harry Potter turns his head, finally, and something in his eyes is dark, amused. Captivating _ , infuriating. _

“Yes, I fucking  _ dare _ . I have nothing left to lose to you, Voldemort.”

And because Voldemort cannot torture the insolent creature due to the ward wall between them, because he cannot hurt his horcrux, because there is no point at making this boy  _ bleed–– _

Voldemort leaves like a storm, burning and crashing and thunderous, Harry Potter’s haggard, cutting laugh echoing in his ears the entire way to the surface.

*******

The next time Voldemort visits, he is calmer. 

Harry Potter is audacious, daring, because, as he said, he has nothing left to lose. Even if Voldemort threatened the boy with the death of his loved ones, the killing of thousands of his beloved muggles, it would do nothing. Voldemort truly does not know where the boy’s friends hide, nor would the boy have any guarantee of the truth of his words. 

It would be utterly useless. And, truly, he has no reason to do so. Harry Potter is locked away in the most secure cell in Azkaban, buried under miles of water and an endless stretch of sea. 

Voldemort has won. It would not do to lose his focus when he has not lost anything else.

When he enters this time, the boy is sitting in the corner, head down and thinner than before. 

Daily, one of the Inner Circle come in with a single meal. Hardly that, if Voldemort is honest. 

Voldemort ignores the discomfort of how similar the delivered food looks like rations from the war.

The boy refuses to be stoic, this time. 

“Why have you come back?”

Voldemort is silent, and there lies the answer. 

He doesn’t know.

But he has returned, and he sits, waiting. For what, he’s not sure.

Then, the boy looks up at him, his eyes blazing. There is still a defiance there, no matter that Voldemort has him trapped behind bars. 

“Why haven’t you killed me?”

Voldemort hesitates for only a second before he finds himself saying, “You harbor my soul.”

The boy stares at him, incredulous. “I  _ what? _ ”

Voldemort doesn’t look away. “A bit of my soul… Rests in you. You are its host.”

The boy stares a moment longer, before his eyes flutter shut. Eventually, he croaks, “Leave.”

Voldemort feels irritation rise. “No.”

The boy looks at him, angry, furious, and somewhere, in the depths of those emerald seas–– _ broken _ .

“Leave!” he shouts hoarsely, staggering to his feet. He is weak, after so long with so little food. After so long without his magic. “Leave! Go! Get the  _ fuck out _ , you terrible thing! Fucking  _ go _ !”

Voldemort stays. “No.”

The boy’s face creases with fury, and he rages like a storm cloud, like a tempestuous sea, like a roaring fire––and still, Voldemort stays. 

Voldemort stays, and when he finally leaves, Harry Potter is on the ground, sobbing, defeated. Devastated, at a truth that cuts through all of his softest places and hits, solid, against his most valuable asset––his heart.

*******

Many nights pass in this way. 

Voldemort comes, he stays, and he leaves. And during this time, he listens.

He listens when the boy–– _ Harry, after so long in his presence, he must call him Harry _ ––rages, cries, hopes. Voldemort listens, and he learns.

He learns of Harry Potter’s life. His dreams, his sorrows. He learns of what could’ve been, what already had. 

Voldemort learns of what it is like to love, secondhand.

He feels each word like a heady caress, like a blow to the stomach––he consumes them with a fascination that is dangerous, that is horrid in its sincerity, but no matter what he does, he cannot seem to stop. And maybe Harry feels the same, for no matter his hatred for the man before him, he cannot seem to stop sharing.

And eventually, after days and nights, after moments and millennia––he realizes he would rather listen without a wall between them. With no separation between souls, who call for each other at every waking moment; who pull, with a magnet’s ardour, to the only person who can share a true connection with him no matter how much Voldemort denies it, even in the safety of his own well-guarded mind.

And when he tries it––when he tries to remove him from that infernal prison, where Voldemort’s magic feels chained and desperate, like a caged animal, and touches Harry Potter for the second time as himself, a gentle, helping hand to the forearm and the elbow––Harry Potter falls to the floor as soon as he crosses the threshold, seizing as if hit with the  _ Cruciatus _ .

Voldemort, panicked, hurriedly carries him back over the line, arranging him, gently, on the floor. 

And he finds the only man he trusts to have both an answer and indiscretion.

The answer is the worst he could’ve imagined.

“My––My Lord, the wards are  _ killing  _ him.”

Severus’s face goes white with the shock, pale with the realization. He had not visited the boy since his capture, too preoccupied with allaying Dumbledore’s suspicions, and to be told this––

Voldemort sits up straighter, alarmed. “Then I must remove him from them.”

Severus doesn’t even question why he wishes to keep the boy alive. “You  _ can’t _ .”

Voldemort, voice cold and yet still composed, replies, “Why not?”

Severus’s voice, as admirable as his calm facade is, shakes as he explains, “The wards––they are suppressing his magic, suppressing the very force that keeps him alive. But to remove him––the deluge of sudden magic would kill him.”

Voldemort’s eyes burn, the maroon brightening to crimson, to an angry blood-red. “He’s doomed?”

Severus’s head bows, hair falling in his face. Hiding his feelings. He whispers, “Yes, My Lord.”

Voldemort feels something in the back of his throat. Something thick, blocking his airway. Blocking all these things unsaid.

“Leave me.”

And Severus does.

*******

When Voldemort returns for the last time, Harry is curled on the floor, shaking from the cold. 

Voldemort says nothing, but it doesn’t matter. Harry beats him to words, just as he has beat him to many things. Beat him to realization, because Harry doesn’t seem shocked in the least by his approaching end.

“You know,” Harry whispers, breath rattling in his lungs, “When I thought of myself dying… I thought it would be… it would be by your hand, because you wanted it so bad, for so long.” He draws a breath, shaking, coughing, “It’s funny, that I’ll die because––because you’re trying so hard to stop it.”

And his eyes are so bright, so shining, that Voldemort notices immediately when the light is extinguished by the lowering of eyelids. “Voldemort… Tom...”

And despite the fact that he hates the suppression of his magic, hates how it leaves his veins empty of what makes them special, he is unlocking the cell in seconds, darting forward to cradle Harry’s head in his lap.

The boy smiles, blinking up at him, unseeing. “Tom,” he wheezes.

“Harry,” Voldemort returns.

“Tom,” the boy smiles. He draws thin breaths, and Voldemort knows this is the end. Feels it in the marrow of him when the boy says, “I think… I think I’m glad I’m dying your prisoner, Tom… Rather your prisoner… than your enemy.”

And those beautiful, gorgeous green eyes shut, and Voldemort feels suddenly so empty. Somehow, he knows, this emptiness cannot be simply the departure of a horcrux, but the departure of a friend. Of something more.

Of Harry Potter.

‘But I love you,’ he mouths against Harry’s forehead, pressing a gentle kiss to his wild, lovely black hair. ‘I love you,’ he howls silently, because he cannot bring himself to say it aloud. To admit it to the world––admit it to himself, even in loneliness.

And as Harry slips from the world like water, slides through the cracks like air, Voldemort thinks, maybe, he hears Harry’s voice in his ear.

Hears the quiet whisper of,  _ “I know.” _

Voldemort wants to hold his spirit to him, anchor it to the earthly plane. He is almost fooled into thinking it’s already there, the warmth of it standing next to him.

Lord Voldemort has already conquered immortality.

Perhaps necromancy… is next on the list.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I tell you this one got away from me... I don't know, I just really love the concept of this, and I really couldn't limit it to just a thousand words. This is probably one of my favorite chapters that I've written so far, even if the pacing's a little off. I also tried to keep the ending as open as possible, to match the other chapters––even if it seems like the end, it's not! There is still so much that could be done with those two.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think!
> 
> Stay safe and stay sane! ✌️


	8. A savior signs a contract.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: nevermind the end by slexenskee
> 
> Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3099083/chapters/6714275

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of Dub-con/Non-con.

VIII.

Harry can’t think of that day without wanting to die.

When the war had ended, when Harry had walked to his death, nothing happened as it should’ve. Nothing went to plan.

He’s still not sure how _he_ found out.

But all of a sudden, Harry couldn’t be killed. All of a sudden, Harry was precious, was needed, was _wanted_.

Has his life always been forfeit? Never his own, no matter how much he grows up, ready to handle the burden of making his own choices, molding himself into the person _he_ wants to be?

First the Boy-Who-Lived, then the Heir, then the hero, then the liar. Then the horcrux.

Then the prize.

The contract had been written with the help of Dumbledore’s portrait, Voldemort scanning each detail with keen eyes, as Harry sat to the side, awaiting his sentence.

What a sentence it was.

Voldemort’s, until Harry’s death. His toy, his pet, his, in every sense of the word. 

Harry wouldn’t be dying, now. Not with all that had happened since.

The only thing Harry truly owned of himself––not his soul, not his mind, not his body––but his heart. Ah, his heart. It had still been entirely his.

And like the idiot he was, like the fool… Harry had given it to Voldemort, anyway.

The first few years had been brutal. He had been beaten, manipulated, starved, tortured… raped.

He had been a toy, in every possible sense of the word. 

But the only one, the only one allowed to touch Harry, to lay hands on him––ah, that was Voldemort. 

His master; his maker, almost, if one accounted for the inextricable ways he had shaped Harry’s being with his actions; shaped Harry’s circumstances with one spell on his tongue.

Their story, the tale of the dreaded years…

Well. It’s a long one.

But that’s for another time.

********

The brutality turned to true affection on Harry’s nineteenth birthday.

That night, the Order had appeared. That night, the Order had ended.

Harry still remembers it; he’d been seated to Voldemort’s left, dressed in white (Voldemort liked the innocent look on him) at the front of the ballroom, sitting falsely above in an ornate chair. Voldemort, as high and mighty as he was, had already slipped away from the room, to “take care of other business.”

Harry knew better than to ask questions.

He’d snorted to himself, then, because he’d seen Bellatrix’s face light up at the sight of Harry’s empty side, of Voldemort’s departure from Harry.

Everyone had known the ways their master liked to hurt Harry, and Bellatrix had always struggled between hating the methods and admiring the skill of it. 

The reason the thought had amused him so, was because at the time he’d seen her, he’d thought, _Well, at least I don’t have to worry he’s unfaithful_ , because truly, if Voldemort was going to bed anyone, it’d be someone like her.

Someone like Harry.

By then, even the depressing and twisted nature of his own sense of humor had ceased fazing him.

And then, all of Harry’s amusement disappeared when Kingsley popped into existence at his shoulder. 

“Harry, we’ve come to save you.”

He’d hardly gotten a sentence out before the screams started.

Because there, just there, on the edge of the ballroom… The Dark Lord had appeared, too.

The blood of that night never left Harry’s robes, so saturated in it were they.

One never knows what they have until they’re close to losing it, like a bird, unseen and unheard in the night.

And never again, never, did Voldemort hurt Harry.

********

Harry lays in bed frequently, thinking of the moments of his life. 

He hates Voldemort, he really does, and if he could go back, he’d die on that day when this lunacy started. He really would.

But maybe… Maybe, there are worse things than what he has now.

The journey was hell, but the end… The end is the closest Harry will ever get to heaven.

“Precious, what is wrong?”

Harry rolls over, burrowing into Voldemort’s heat. He had been a blazing furnace against his back, soothing the hole left in Harry’s chest, but Harry likes it better this way. Likes it better when his face is pressed to the crook of the other man’s neck.

The man is, funnily enough, only warm when he is close to Harry. When their hands brush by coincidence, he feels like ice.

It is just one of the many details Harry has collected about this man.

“A lot of things,” Harry says, sighing. One of Voldemort’s hands rests under his head as he lays on his side, the other smoothing over Harry’s naked hip.

Voldemort nods slowly, acknowledging. As the years have passed, he has been forced to reconcile himself with the things he has done to Harry, with the times when Harry is so full of anger and grief and loss that he can’t speak.

Harry knows Voldemort doesn’t regret what he did to get them to the point of being together, but the damage he did after… Well, Harry likes to think that, though shame is not something well known to the man, it is not a complete mystery.

“Which one?” the man asks into the silence, placing his hand to the small of Harry’s back, drawing him closer.

“My chest hurts, just a little,” Harry says. It’s not the whole truth––years of trauma have nothing on the slight, itching emptiness scratching at his ribs––but it is part of it. It is not a lie.

“I am sorry, my love,” Voldemort says, pressing a gentle kiss to Harry’s temple. Over the years, Harry has taught him the art of apologizing. “But still… You know it is necessary.”

Harry nods. He does know, because Harry’s immortality is absolutely non negotiable to Voldemort. To Harry, it’s an altogether different matter, but Harry does not own himself, anyway. 

Voldemort’s hand trails his spine, nape to dip to back again. Voldemort, too, relishes in this closeness, because just as the piece of Voldemort’s soul in Harry’s body calls to Voldemort, so too does the part of Harry’s soul in Voldemort call to Harry.

Harry looks up, and Voldemort looks back, his eyes blood-red, half-lidded, lazy. He is relaxed, sleep-sweet and soft. 

Harry hates how first his understanding for this man had morphed into hatred, and that hatred had morphed into a love so strong it stings every sensible part of him.

“I love you,” Harry says, looking keenly into those eyes, so that Voldemort may see the sincerity in them. Harry knows that Voldemort does not believe him, some of the time; Harry doesn’t mind the shame he knows the other man feels. It is entirely deserved, and Harry’s love isn’t, but Voldemort has both anyway, despite it all.

Voldemort’s face is expressionless, though there is an intent light to his eyes that tells Harry he is listening. Maybe not believing, but definitely comprehending.

Voldemort leans down, his eyelids falling, before he hesitates, warm breath brushing Harry’s lips.

They had only kissed once, before Harry had fallen, from grace and in love. Voldemort had not hesitated, then; no, then, he had taken all that he wanted, whether Harry said no or not.

Now, he always hesitates. Never sure of his greeting.

It makes Harry smile, pleased.

Because before––before, Voldemort had been obsessed. 

Now, though, despite not saying the words, Harry knows it has changed into adoration. Sheer, utter, mad love.

Now, instead of this one-sided control, Harry has just as much say, maybe more, into what they will and won’t do.

Harry grins, tiny and free, unrestrained.

Now, he has the power.

And he leans in, accepting the kiss for what it is: an apology, for all things said and unsaid.

For all the things that shouldn’t have been done, but led to this perfect moment.

And in that moment, even when Harry thinks of that day, thinks of all that has happened, Harry doesn’t want to die.

No, Harry Potter wants to _fly_ , with Voldemort as his wings, even if he is the one that chained them in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm looking at that mild angst tag and wondering if I should change it...
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments, and sorry I haven't answered yet! I will be getting to them, and just know that I appreciate every single one. <3
> 
> Edit: I just realized we hit 100 kudos! A big thank you, oh my gosh!! <333


	9. A soldier forgives a god.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fic Rec: Of Your Making by purplewitch156
> 
> Link: https://www.archiveofourown.org/works/14368581/chapters/33170874

IX.

“Just try… try for some remorse.”

Voldemort stares into green eyes, stares into the depths of them, down the line of his wand. There is such a sincerity there, such an utter, aching honesty in his face––this boy does not want to kill him. This boy has no intention of doing so, and he's not quite begging, no, too proud to––but he's close.

It would be so  _ easy _ , to achieve what he had been longing to do for so many years, to kill the boy before him for all the slights against his own person, born of the boy's own actions or not.

So easy, to achieve what he had wanted to do since he met this infernal creature.

And he should. He should kill him.

But he hesitates, just a moment, reflects on his life, and for just a second, just a moment, as he stares into bright eyes––there’s something heavy in his gut, at the thought that he had doomed this boy to the same life he himself had experienced.

It is barely there, but it is enough.

And endless, white-hot pain flashes, blinding, just behind his eyes.

*********

Voldemort's eyes flutter open, briefly. His body feels as if it is burning through, as if the sun has made a home in his chest––and a face leans over him, and all Voldemort can think is, _Merlin, Mrs. Cole's stupid muggle fascination with angels was actually real._

Because the creature over him––oh, he seems bathed in a pure, heavenly glow.

"You're going to be alright," the creature says, eyes bright as spring. "I know it hurts, but it's for the best."

And if this creature believes it––well, then maybe it must be true.

Voldemort slips under, and he knows, distantly, that he will not remember his delirious thoughts when he wakes.

*********

When a horcrux is destroyed, it does not destroy the piece of one's soul contained within it. It only sends it past the veil between life and death, where it may be reunited with its main soul piece once it passes through into death’s quiet embrace.

So, when Voldemort felt that glimmer of regret, just a shard, piercing the delicate skin of his stomach––his soul pieces, banished just seconds or days or years earlier, had raced to his body, slamming into him like a rush of air.

And oh, how it  _ burns. _

Voldemort has handled many different pains in his life, but this time, when he wakes up in an unknown room, in an unknown house, he knows he has never felt anything quite like this.

It hurts even worse than the first time he had tampered with his soul, torn the once-beautiful, once-resilient tapestry of it.

It dulls his perceptions, dulls his once-quick mind, and so he has remind himself several times before he has able to hold onto one, single conscious thought: t he ceiling is white.

He sits up, slowly, even as the blood pounds behind his ears. Even as his body shakes with the effort.

He blinks.

He is… In a Muggle room.

At least, that’s the first thought.

But then, he looks around, and he sees moving photos on the walls, disguised by the many posters of scantily-clad women, sees a quill and ink on the table, hidden under piles of books and CDs.

_ Where… is he? _

And then, he’s turning, slightly, because it still hurts, this tug on his chest, and he comes face to face with his reflection.

He is… human.

He is  _ whole _ .

As Voldemort stares, he traces his features. The skin around his eyes––no longer red, now dark––the bridge of his nose––no longer flattened, now defined, aristocratic––tugs a hand through the dark hair on his head––no longer bare, now thick and healthy.

He looks how he imagines he would’ve in his thirties, had he never made any horcruxes. The thought sends a pang of fear through him.

He is no longer immortal, and he has no idea where he is.

_ Potter. Potter did this. _

He feels his mouth open in rage, a scream of sheer fury.

In a flash he’s out of the four-poster bed he’d woken in, ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs, in his whole body, channelling it into smashing the mirror to pieces; picking up a shard, so that he may have a weapon when he breaks out of this room.

He charges for the door, and promptly blacks out as soon as his hand meets the wood.

*********

The next time he opens his eyes, he is staring into someone else’s.

No, no, not someone else’s––he’d know those vivid eyes anywhere.

Potter’s.

He sits up, the killing curse already on his lips–– _ he shouldn’t have hesitated, he shouldn’t have stopped to think, he shouldn’t have bloody  _ believed _ those blasted words–– _ when a gentle, firm hand is pressing down on his bare shoulder, pushing him to the bed.

And then, a wand is pressing into the delicate skin under his chin.

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you,” Potter says, green eyes flashing. He seems relatively relaxed, considering that he is in the same room as a murderous Dark Lord, and Voldemort tries not to feel slightly miffed at the notion.

“And why not?” he snarls, spits, pushing up against the hand, but he is too weak. Too weak to even fight against a seventeen year old boy.

“Because,” the boy says, jabbing harder, his brows furrowing in irritation, “if you do, I’ll be forced to knock you out and call Kingsley, and believe me, we both don’t want that.”

“What a threat,” Voldemort hisses, tilting his head away from the wand at his throat. “I’m terrified.”

“You should be,” the boy retorts, calm. “Because if you don’t behave, they’re going to push you through the Veil, and we don’t want that, do we?”

Voldemort doesn’t let his eyes widen, doesn’t let his nostrils flare. Does not betray the fear, the anxiety of walking a tightrope.

He goes limp in the bed, slowly, showing his acknowledgment and begrudging acceptance.

The boy smiles, small and clean and bright. “Good,” he says, before withdrawing his wand, shoving it into his pocket. He offers a single hand. “I have breakfast, if you want it,” he says, his hand steady where it rests in the air.

Voldemort eyes it, wary. 

His eyes look up into the face of its owner. His face is open, hopeful, as if he wishes to spare Voldemort his fate.

Voldemort would believe the boy a talented actor if he hadn’t seen the utter honesty in his eyes at the battle of Hogwarts. At that moment, when their eyes had met over their wands, the boy had had no desire to kill him, despite all the pain Voldemort had inflicted on him, all the things he had done and still did not regret, no matter his sudden change in form.

An idea sparks.

If Voldemort plays nice––if he obeys, becomes the perfect example of a reformed member of the Dark, the leader of them, even––he will gain this boy, who is too trusting. Too ready to save him.

And then, when the time is right––he can seek revenge, for all those years alone and in pain, empty and barely tangible.

He takes the hand.

*********

“You live here… alone?” Voldemort asks, eventually, into the cup of coffee he holds.

He can’t check if it’s poisoned, but he doesn’t see why the boy would. All he has to do is hand Voldemort over to Kingsley, and this madness would be finished.

“Kind of,” the boy says, shrugging. Voldemort doesn't ask about it, because already, he has another question of more immediate concern.

"Where is––here?" 

The boy looks away, refusing to answer. Voldemort would push, but considering his new goal––considering the change in circumstances, he settles for observing.

The boy is moving food from the stove onto plates. When Voldemort just watches in silence as he sets them on the table, he looks up at him, as if surprised that he didn't try to get an answer. Still, he only seems to shake his head to himself, before standing, as if to retrieve something else––cutlery, probably––before hesitating. He watches Voldemort with narrowed eyes.

Voldemort’s face betrays nothing, he knows. The boy will learn nothing from him.

After a moment of his steady observance, the boy eventually goes to the drawer, taking two forks.

Their hands brush as he passes it to Voldemort.

The boy’s throat works as he says, “I’m trusting you. It may be a mistake, I’m aware. But if you can change as your body has––I have faith your heart can lighten, too.”

He sighs, sitting down, before he continues, “But if you don’t, Kingsley has a tracker on my pulse. If it stops for longer than plausible, you’ll be dead in minutes.”

Voldemort nods, after a moment. If he is correct in his assumptions––and he usually is––there is some spell linking their heartbeats. If one of their hearts stop, so does the other.

Belatedly, he thinks that Dumbledore might’ve called it romantic.

Voldemort, irritated at himself, pushes the thought away and drinks deeply from his coffee, neglecting to eat from the plates laid out. Potter eats in silence, before he eventually looks up, meeting Voldemort’s eyes in the awkward silence. His eyes brighten in question. 

Voldemort doesn’t look away, deciding that he will answer all the questions he can. An icebreaker, almost. The first step in thawing out Potter’s wariness.

“In my old body––I didn’t eat. Or sleep, for that matter.”

The boy regards him for a long moment. Eventually, he says, “that sounds terrible.”

Voldemort blinks. 

After all Voldemort has done, for the boy to try and comfort him is––disconcerting. Astounding, really.

A hint of a smile appears on Potter’s face at the rare, unguarded display of emotion. “I mean, to live without food to fill your days, without sleep to recover––no wonder you went batshit.”

Voldemort feels the anger like slow-boiling water, but he doesn’t act on it.

Strange. In his old body––Voldemort would not have hesitated. In that moment, he realizes everything seems… clearer, somehow. Not hidden behind a fog of dull, throbbing pain, or mindless rage and deep-seated fear. 

He can see clearly for the first time since he was sixteen.

He lets out a slow breath.

A discovery to contemplate, later, when he is alone.

“It was… bearable.”

The boy looks down at that, picking at his food. “Bearable does not mean enjoyable, you know.”

Voldemort inclines his head. “That it does not.”

The room descends into silence, and Voldemort regards his jailer with an intensity that borders on obsessive.

Voldemort does not know how long their arrangement will last. He does not know how long he will stay with Harry Potter, or how many days, weeks, years he will spend, trying to steal his way into the boy’s good graces.

But now, as he sits across from him, watching the blush creep up his cheeks at Voldemort’s attention…

He thinks,  _ Perhaps this could be enjoyable, not just bearable. _

_ Perhaps this could be… Something  _ fun _. _

Voldemort has not had fun in a long, long time.

A slow grin spreads across his face, and the Potter boy eyes him, nervous, and rightly so.

After so long living inside of his own, fractured head, fun sounds like the perfect remedy, even if it comes at the price of Harry Potter’s heart.

Fun sounds like seduction of the best kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more to go! Also, a merry Christmas Eve to all that celebrate!


	10. A man meets a ghost.

X.

It is eighty years later when Harry Potter finally closes his eyes for the last time.

He is surrounded by the shining faces of his loved ones; Ron and Hermione are there, holding tightly to each other. Ginny, pressing gentle lips to his hand. Neville and Luna, acting as stability for everyone else. Even Draco Malfoy, pretending not to feel upset in the slightest, though even through blurry vision, Harry can still see his red-rimmed eyes.

His children, at the foot of the bed. 

James has on a brave face; Lily, too, though hers has more cracks in it. Albus is the only one not attempting to disguise his sadness.

Even after living a long, full life, longer than most Muggles hope to live, Harry will still die younger than most wizards.

But, even so, Harry Potter has surely lived more than most, too. He has watched lives pass before his eyes, met his own end, ready, more than once, and now, he will do so again, for the final time.

As he closes his eyes, he feels a tear trace its way down his cheek, hears the quiet sob of his wife. And still, despite his sorrow at leaving them, at losing them, he lets himself fall back into that sweet, peaceful embrace––like strong arms, wrapped tight around his waist––and he feels himself fill with love, with hope for the beyond.

Because as much as he loves his family, loves the life he has built for himself after that fateful battle––maybe, maybe, as he takes his final rest, will the burning stop.

Harry Potter dies, and he is right to hope, for it is like a balm upon his heart, even as he leaves many broken in his wake.

**********

Voldemort––Tom, he has slowly come to call himself, the name he was first given and has slowly come to terms with, over this long wait––is still at King’s Cross.

It is still red, and he is still seated on that bench.

And then, all of a sudden, crimson bleeds to white, blinding in its brilliance.

Tom blinks, gasping. The white blinds him, and in the same breath––purifies him. Bathes him in a divine, cleansing light.

Like the touch of an angel, the glow, with the gentlest of hands, seems to finally,  _ finally _ seal the cracks in his chest. Gifts him a second chance, a complete soul.

_ “Don’t waste it,”  _ something whispers, something otherworldly,  _ “I have given it to you, so that you may give it to him. Don’t waste it.” _

He nods without thinking, a gratitude beyond words filling him. Yes, yes, he will not waste it. He will not take it for granted. 

He thinks he knows exactly who he is meant to give it to, and he has no trepidation at the thought.

When his vision finally comes back to him, he looks around, and sees, sitting on the bench next to him––

Harry Potter.

Tom feels the tug of a smile when Harry’s eyes meet his. 

_ I was right _ , he thinks,  _ so long ago _ . 

He was waiting for a someone, not a something.

**********

When Harry Potter next opens his eyes, he is dead, but he has never felt more  _ alive. _

His chest, once stinging, scratching with every breath, has settled. Has healed over. 

He is in that same place he had been so many years ago. But, this time, instead of Dumbledore, or a malnourished, misshapen fragment of Voldemort, next to him sits Tom Riddle.

Harry studies him. Studies his aristocratic features: his straight nose, full lips, high cheekbones. Dark hair, intense eyes. Watches as a smile slips onto the man’s face.

“Hello,” Tom Riddle says, voice deep and warm.

“Hello,” Harry says, after a beat, before a thought strikes him. If Voldemort’s physical form has changed––

He looks down at himself, and sees young hands; feels his face, and his hands meet smooth skin. His eyes, though, are surely the same––even when he was on his deathbed, he was told they were as bright as ever.

“How old am I?” he blurts, suddenly, running his hands through his now thick, now black hair.

Tom Riddle surveys him, before taking a lock of Harry’s hair in his hands, rubbing it between his fingers. “You look no different than you did the last time I saw you.”

Harry’s breath catches in his throat. “I’m… I’m seventeen again?”

Tom’s brow furrows. “Again?” he asks, his hand falling from its place in Harry’s hair to the bench, scant inches from Harry’s fingertips. 

Harry tries and fails to ignore the heat of him.

“I––I’m ninety-seven,” he stutters out, feeling his face warm as he looks deep into those eyes, those eyes that pierce back. He feels a hint of nervousness––surely he shouldn’t bring up his old age, older than this man when he passed, when this man before him had hoped never to die?

Tom smiles, the last thing Harry would’ve expected from him. “Well, you certainly beat me, didn’t you?”

Harry snorts, then covers his mouth, embarrassed at his own nerve. Tom shakes his head, grinning. So much freer than any version of Voldemort Harry has seen. 

“It’s fine, Harry. It’s––it’s all fine, now.”

Tom leans in, his eyes so, so warm, so soft. So  _ affectionate _ . “I have waited for you.”

For reasons Harry can’t explain, he doesn’t pull away. It is like a magnetic force pulls them together, strung tight behind the blazing of their eyes. “You have?” he asks, as if from behind glass, echoey and distant.

Tom nods, and Harry follows the motion, hypnotized. “All these years.”

He doesn’t know why, but the thought brings tears to his eyes. Unthinkingly, he croaks, “All this time?”

And Tom, as if in on the joke but not finding humor in it, whispers, “Always.”

A tear falls, and Harry grins, wet and bright. 

Harry has never been afraid of death. And now––now, he welcomes it, he embraces it with open arms, because he has finally found someone else’s arms to turn into.

**********

Tom stares deep into green, green eyes, watches as they fill with tears, as hope and peace and love are broadcasted from one mind, so open, to his. 

He can’t bear to look away, but somehow, he knows it’s time. It’s finally time.

Tom stands, reaching out a hand. Harry Potter looks at it, and then to his face. Searching, wondering, and Tom feels so  _ full  _ with it all. Something warm and carefree ignites in his chest, a welcome change to that incessant burning he had endured. This flame––it is different. It is kind, it is happy. It brings no pain.

“Come with me,” he says, honest for the first time in so many years.

And the boy, without a hint of fear, takes his hand, letting Tom pull him to his feet. “Anywhere.”

Tom laughs, loud and happy, giddy. “Anywhere,” he agrees, and then he spins the boy.

Harry’s shout of surprise quickly turns into a full laugh, just as bright, just as sparkling, and Tom knows there is no happiness like this.

With two hands, he pulls the boy, still laughing, to the train. It had pulled in moments ago, but neither had cared, too consumed in each other, in this reunion years in the making.

They stand before the door, hands intertwined. Tom looks down at Harry, and the boy looks up at him, grinning so wide his face surely must hurt.

Tom puts a hand to his cheek, and the boy looks at him with unguarded surprise. But even despite their history, which seems so distant, or the life he had surely left behind––he doesn’t stop this pull. He welcomes it, leans into it.

Leans into Tom, and Tom leans back.

Their lips meet in a sigh of bliss, and Tom feels as if the world has righted itself.

Their history is a long, dark one, tangled over timelines and twisted over universes.

But this, this––this transcends all timelines, all universes, all fates and destinies and magic.

This is the stuff of fairytales, and Tom will grab it with two hands.

They board the train together.

**********

Time is a path not often straight, a road not often walked in one line.

There are branches to it, crossroads at every moment, every choice, offering chances at infinite futures.

Time is not a singular ribbon to walk, and so when they had seen these two souls, both blinding in their brightness, in their potential––when they had witnessed all the ways this one destiny could be turned, all these choices that could be changed, they had brought life to these futures, these stories not chosen.

They had blossomed life into these alternate loves.

Time travel, kidnapping, forgiveness, chance––no matter the method, Time had brought them together, damn the endings, if only for every version of these two souls and all their experience to come to their minds in the end, when that first path had finally come to a halt.

Harry Potter and Tom Riddle, with all the memories Time itself had given them, had boarded the train together.

And even now, Time listens to the laughter they leave in their wake, just as they had listened to that first plea for peace, so, so long ago.

And Time, ever fickle, ever unmerciful, and yet always the romantic… had granted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the end, but love doesn't ever truly end, does it?
> 
> Merry Christmas to all that celebrate it! I'm so happy to finish this, and thank you to everyone who has been with this since day one, and to those that may be finding this just now! I'm really pleased with how this has wrapped up, and can't express enough of my thanks for all the support on this fic. Reading y'all's comments brings me so much joy, you have no idea.
> 
> I'm considering adding fic recs at the end of each chapter with fics that have similar concepts, since I know these are short, so if I add something in the chapter summaries before each, that's why.
> 
> Happy holidays, and I hope you enjoyed Timid Timelines!

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! This fic is series of snippets, each from a different timeline that branched off from a single change. I'm aiming somewhere near 1,000 words for each chapter, but I tend to run long, so we'll see.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated! Feel free to check me out on Tumblr: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/penmanner


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